


Second-Hand Smoke

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9648230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: England, France, a small balcony in Paris, and New Year's Eve. Between the cigarette smoke, atmosphere, and the party in the background, things are bitter, bittersweet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A pinch-hit for grand-guardian-deity (on tumblr), for the 2017 FrUK Gift Exchange. One of your wishes was for a ‘Midnight Kiss,’ but more kisses seem to have snuck in. I’m so, _so_ sorry this is so late; it fought against me every step of the way.

England doesn’t _mean_ to be outside, alone, lighting up, ten minutes before midnight on New Year’s Eve, but he supposes it’s been one of those years. Looks liable to be another one of _those_ years coming up too, so - start as you mean to go on, as they always say. Tomorrow might be a new day but people always neglect to mention you buy your new tomorrows with the work done in your old yesterdays, and the months just past (the last one passing) are a string of stubborn regrets with England’s name pasted all over them.

England has drunk just enough to be on the depressing side of cynical. He would’ve drunk a hell of a lot _more_ already if France hadn’t relieved him of the bottle of good cointreau England had found lurking as yet unopened at the back of one of the frog’s kitchen cabinets when Hungary had sent him on a trip to fetch some kitchen roll to wipe up a spill. It’s a distressing thought, that everyone thinks England knows his way around France’s Paris apartment drunk and/or in the dark. (They’re right, of course, but that has never included finding anything more than tea and the kettle in the _chic_ mystery that is France’s kitchen.) _More_ distressing had been the stolen cointreau and France’s resigned _petit, if you_ must _get drunk, please use the poor champagne,_ long fingers spread far too persuasively in the small of England’s back that had pushed him back into the noise that was France’s New Year’s party.

(England had done his best not to look curiously disappointed. When the frog had leant in, warm hand over England’s hand around the smooth bottle, he’d thought -

No.)

Most of Europe had shown up. Belgium, who had smiled rather tiredly at England but left a lipstick kiss on his cheek. Luxembourg attempting to beat Monaco at poker for the _n_ th time with the express allowance they were both allowed to play dirty, and pausing in absolute bewilderment every time the observing Liechtenstein told him that Monaco had just cheated - _again -_ , and she didn’t mean to be rude, but had Luxembourg really not noticed? Spain, loose-limbed and sleepy-eyed and refusing to move out of a one metre radius of the nearest radiator, tucked up talking with Hungary on the sofa, lazy conversation between them, Hungary’s chignon already falling down. Prussia and Sweden had kept up an unspoken but incredibly noisy war over the choice of music all night, and Finland and North Italy had enthused about _something_ together whilst drinking until Finland had accidentally drunk the Italian - literally - under the table.

France has more than one balcony. The nice one - Eiffel Tower view, streets strung up with fairy tale lights and lover’s dreams - is long, attached to the living room/lounge area, meant for leaning on  - with a glass of wine in hand -  or _against -_ a fuck down on his knees and restudying the combined arts of lips, teeth, buckle, zip. England hates calling the frog on the phone and just _knowing_ that France has wandered out there to take the call; it’s too easy to picture, those doors, that balcony, Paris in the evening and the lights on the tosser’s blond hair. Hand, fingers, thumb, cradling the phone like a lover, stroking down the nerves.

When in London, tasting his burnt-bitter heart in his throat when the French _murmurs_ in his ear and watching the split of streetlights refracting through the falling rain: _God_ , how England longs to choke him.

England holes himself up on the less nice balcony attached to the flat - a little squashed thing off the dark bedroom, bad for seduction, made to injure elbows with unforgiving railings. If France is sleeping in the bedroom the open balcony door lets in too much of a draft, and England, if he’s staying long enough into the night his thoughts have woken him, has to open the bedroom window instead, half-dressed, bent and folded into a seat, smoking through his introspection like that instead.

No-one is sleeping _now_ : around the corner of the building, England can hear some of the others at the party spilling out onto the larger balcony, conversation and laughter in a jumble of languages. Other balconies too, down the street, are full of life, enervation winding up as the last of the year winds away.

Cigarette drawn out of its holder, England lights up. It’s a mild winter; the cold of other New Year’s Eves past have burnt his fingertips with their chill, matches struck and lighters clicked on battlefields, against building walls, one last quick breath of nicotine that needs to be ground underfoot on the garden path before once more heading into the party’s breach, once more. Socialisation likes to bring out all his vices; he’s done this too many times before.

(Paris is too bright for starlight now, but, if England closes his eyes, he can still see the ghost of the settlement that it used to be, stones and candles, the universe moving slowly, glittering, overhead.)

A sudden increase in light and noise behind England’s back alerts him to the bedroom door opening - and closing again almost immediately, the space between just long enough for someone to slip through.

Someone _has -_ England knows the tread of the foot behind him, however quiet. It’s led and followed and occasionally went beside him through almost all his years.

“You look very antisocial, you know,” says France, deliberately and irritatingly bland, “standing there alone in the dark. One might almost describe it as _lurking,_ in your tongue. All connotations included, of course.”

England takes his cigarette from his lips between fingers and thumb, breathing out a slow plume of smoke as he searches for something pithy to say. Nothing is springing to mind; he is, he notes distantly, tired. “Do fuck off.”

It’s probably the closest to politically correct and internationally cooperative as he’s going to get.

France doesn’t reply, not immediately. He steps closer though, out of the bedroom and onto the balcony, and England can feel the warmth of his body _just_ behind England’s back.

“The mouth on you,” says France lowly, sounds almost lazily amused, and the breath of it sparks in even lazier spirals down the curve of England’s back.

England has some things to say about France’s - unnecessary - _opinions_ about his mouth. He doesn’t get to say them though; when he shifts and twists his head to let loose on the _nuisance_ behind him, France’s fingers grab his belt loops, belt, keep him turning, and England only has one hand against that, fingers caught wide and surprised against France’s chest. His other hand is still holding his burning cigarette and trying not to set fire to France’s _fucking hair,_ arm hiked up uncomfortably in the air, and France rolls like a wave and -

England’s words dissipate like the last of the smoke between his lips, lost against France’s mouth hard over his. A softer heat than fire, but there and gone, it feels, just as quick.

Absurdly, England’s mouth feels branded afterwards, tingling. His lips taste of orange when his tongue swipes over them, thoughtlessly, to soothe them, sharp and sweet. His brain splutters, seizing the first thought it senses to start again: “...You _drank_ the cointreau?”

The night is not dark enough England cannot see the gleam of teeth in France’s grin. “Angleterre -”

A loud _thunk_ sounds inside France’s apartment, interrupting him, followed by an eruption of teasing cheers. It distracts _England_ as well, who forgets about putting his fist in his host’s sternum for kisses given without warning.

“Some years I think,” says France, his hand stroking over England’s denim-clad hip and his hair falling into his eyes just _so_ despite the way England is sighing terribly resignedly in his _face_ , “you are nothing more than bad habits strung together with stubbornness and spite.”

...An answer to _that_ needs more than a sigh. “The shovel mocks the - what the hell is it that you say? _Du fourgon?_ Fuck it - _poker._ ” England pushes at France’s chest, drawing back his other arm, the limb beginning to ache hanging in the air. He’s been dropping ash all over the balcony floor, and, after this, he is _not_ cleaning it up. “I’m busy having a smoke.”

France allows a little space between them - but not much. (The balcony really isn’t _that_ big.) “The countdown will be beginning soon.”

“I’ve got an hour.” England feels contrary, and deliberately lifts his cigarette to his lips to take another deep drag. He can feel the anticipation of the crowds in London resonating in his chest, one hour behind Paris, bundled up in warm coats and bobble hats and not quite yet at the breathless hush of the French.

 _“Angleterre._ ” France does his reproachful look, pursed lips, eyelashes meant to kill.

When England moves, shifting to the side a little, he can see the glow of Parisian lights on France’s face. Star light, star bright - England had been shadowing him. “Don’t give me that. Half your damn party is wasted because New Year has hit their hearts back home already.”

“You make it sound like an attack.”

The railing is pressing into England’s hip, a line of distant cold. “Parties make people stupid.”

France moves around the next plume of smoke England blows in his direction. Moving back into England’s space again. “Is that why you’re out here?”

England frowns at him. “I’m _smoking,_ frog.” Getting the taste of piss-poor alcohol out of his mouth, because France had chosen to deprive him of the good stuff. “One of those bad habits of mine. Why are _you_ out here?”

France shrugs, long and dramatic and spreading his shoulder-blades like wings. Gallic shrug. Hems England in with his hand on the railing by England’s waist. “We both chase bad habits, I suppose.”

Hang on - “Are you calling _me-_ ” France leans in again. England leans back, arse pressing into the railing now. “ _How_ much of that cointreau did you drink?”

France shrugs again. He is looking - there aren’t the words - very… sleek _insouciance_ tonight, shirt tailored trim to his figure. “I am still _compos mentis,_ if that is what concerns you.”

“You have _never_ been _compos mentis._ ” There’s a mind behind France’s blue eyes, loath as England is to admit it, but he has never thought it entirely _sound._  (It’s _French,_ for starters.) “Many things, but -” France moves in again, pressing flush up against England’s body- “would you at _least_ let me put out my fucking cigarette?!”

France lets him - or more precisely, he allows England’s arm enough room to move so that England can stub out his cigarette on the railing, but provides great distraction by kissing the bare skin on the side of England’s throat.

England grits his teeth, and succeeds at his task by sheer force of will. France’s hair _tickles,_ little flutters of silk strands around his face _._ _“Frog._ ”

The buzz of France’s chuckle vibrates through England’s pulse. “I came here to drag you back to the party, and _now_ look where we are.”

“That has nothing to do with _me._ ” England thumps his loosely closed fist against the other Nation’s shoulder. The sounds coming from the party are getting louder, a charge in the air that makes the hair on England’s nape prickle. “I came out here for a _peaceful_ smoke.”

“As you say.” France has lifted his head and is giving England an _indulgent_ look.

England thumps France’s shoulder again for the indulgent look, unable to help himself squirming a little when France’s hand finds his waist again, skimming up underneath England’s jumper to the warm skin beneath. “Oi.”

England has ticklish sides. He shifts again when France’s palm smoothes over a particularly sensitive spot, France’s thumb brushing distractingly in the hollow of his hip, and, half-accidentally, England pushes himself further into the other’s arms. (The winter is mild, yes, but France is warmer, and England has always craved the warmth of another wrapped around him. It was offered to him so sparsely as a child, and now -

Now, old habits die hard.)

France kisses England’s jaw again, his cheek, the corner of his lips. England lets his eyes fall shut, expecting another kiss there afterwards, firm on his mouth - but France does not oblige.

England opens his eyes again, and squints at France suspiciously.

France looks _amused_ again.

England idly debates lifting his knee sharp into France’s crotch.

“You know,” France has his free hand on England’s cheek now, cool from the balcony railing. His thumb rests on England’s lower lip, parting England’s mouth with its weight and dangerously close to the snap of England’s teeth, “my city has always looked beautiful in your eyes.”

There are too many ways to take that. “You’re a goddamn narcissist,” says England baldly, taking the simplest. “Why I -”

 _“Zehn!”_ somebody shouts gleefully from the other balcony, England’s head automatically turning in that direction at the noise too loud to ignore. Prussia.

 _At least in_ French, _dumbass,_ says someone else - probably Hungary - and Prussia’s voice grows quieter as he goes inside to argue with them ( _hey, I can count in any language I want!_ ).

The countdown.

 _“Neuf!”_ says the party, and England swallows at the fingers thoughtfully stroking his jawline, looking back at France.

There’s more light in Paris than London at the moment; France’s smile is gentled by it, looks like it could break with it. It’s unfair. “Why you _what_?”

_Huit._

“Not that it matters -” England starts, and falters at _sept._ Changes his words to: “You should go back inside.”

When France shrugs, England feels it move his ribcage. They’re pressed close - again, nothing new. Time after time after time, on this balcony, here, there and everywhere. England can feel every one of them, the stretching years of history that hem them in, and France’s warm body against his, chest and pelvis and slotted legs.

_Six._

“I am here now,” says France.

“On _New Year’s -_ ”

_Cinq._

“You can be my New Year’s resolution,” France suggests, using that _particular_ airy tone of his that suggests he is deliberately being ridiculous and wishes to share a joke - or start an argument. It makes England want to pull his hair - so England does, slipping his hand around the arse’s collar, weaving fingers through the strands near France’s nape.

_Quatre._

“You can’t make a _bad habit_ a resolution; that’s -” England’s grip tightens, and for a moment he feels the _beat_ of the hearts of his people back home, pointing at the time. _One hour to go._ In Paris, the time is _now,_ all the people in France gathering close, getting louder as they count down, and some expectancy trembles through England at last. “You’re a _terrible_ host.”

_Trois._

“So _you_ say.” Despite the pull on his hair, France brings his head closer to England’s. The cool tip of his nose brushes England’ cheek, and his breath fans, warm and intimate, over England’s mouth, like the blown-away smoke of before. “Wish me luck for the coming year?”

_Deux._

Nonsense. “We each make our own luck,” says England firmly. _Carpe Diem:_ seize the day, but seize it with your own hands. (There must be enough _good_ in some of his yesterdays to find a better tomorrow. Surely.) “And it’s your own fault for bothering me -” he’s interrupted by the city’s excited _un_ around him, a hard pulse in France’s chest with it _-_ “if _yours_ tastes of nicotine.”

France laughs, brief but warm - and, this once, it feels just fine to smile back, the expression almost already hid by the supplication of the other Nation’s nearby mouth. “ _Come,_ Angleterre. Haven’t I kissed you in the past tasting of much worse?”

“Yeah,” England snipes, devil-may-care, “ _you -_ ”

_Bonne année!_

Start as you mean to go on indeed. France’s kiss tastes of oranges and ash, a mix between the both of them that delves into something soft and deeper. All their kisses - like them - seem to gentle over time, England shivering a little at the hand still up his jumper, familiar fingers stroking thoughtlessly down the expanse of his throat. Even standing on the unfavoured balcony it’s hard to ignore the world getting  extremely bright and noisy around them, lit up by fireworks and people cheering (and not a few dogs in apartments down the street howling at the noise).

France pulls away. He’s grinning a little smugly, a little stupidly, his mouth damp and his golden hair still slithering into his eyes - and _England’s_ eyes as well, since they’re so close. There are fireworks on his skin, dyeing him red, blue, green, luminescent.

“Bonne année,” France murmurs, England squinting to watch his lips move between the flashes of light. The world smells bright and burnt, smoke trails following in the wake of bright trails in the sky, outshining all of Paris.

“Happy New Year,” England returns, a little more gruffly, and then casts his eyes aside with the pretence of watching another firework go up into the sky in a scream of golden sparkles. Part of him is still waiting for his heart to catch up. Again. “I suppose.”


End file.
